


queenly usurpation

by rubyroth



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Gen, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyroth/pseuds/rubyroth
Summary: A new fandom, another collection of unedited minifics. 1000 words or less, very self-indulgent.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	1. nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I was debating with myself for a long time if I was going to post anything related to Six on my main ao3 account, and thus linking it to my social media presence overall. But it's almost the end of 2020. Might as well throw shame out the window. Catch my Six and other historical adjacent posts over on 300percentmortality on tumblr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt by anon: "Hurt/comfort with the beheaded cousins? Like, they both have a nightmare about the beheading on the same night, and that night was full of comfort from the other queens"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anne POV, no specific warnings besides mentions of canon-typical content.

Anne doesn't remember what happened in her nightmare, which is a minor mercy, but the residue of churning dread leaves her gasping. Her heart pounds hummingbird quick.

A tear drips down onto her collarbone and oh. Okay. She's crying. She only cries after nightmares about--oh. The tears come faster and faster, until she's sobbing, hand over her mouth to stop the strangled noises threatening to bubble out from her throat.

It would easier, if Anne just dreamt about her beheading (though Kitty always disagrees). The dreams of beheading leave her neck sensitive and aching, with a taste of blood in her mouth that lingers for hours, but there's a strange sort of catharsis in the violence. She'd rather that than the tears. Than the creeping dread settling in the pit of her stomach.

Fuck, she'll turn her shirt sleeves into a snotty mess at this rate.

She fumbles around her bedside table until she finds the switch for the lamp. The sudden light leaves spots in her vision. The tissue box is, apparently, on her desk, which is fine. It's fine. She can't stay in bed. After going through an inordinate amount of tissues trying to stop her eyes and noses from leaking and pacing a path through her floorboards in a vain attempt to release the restless energy festering within her, she checks her phone. 2:34am. Her hands tremble enough to muck up the passcode three times in a row, so she sets the phone aside.

A distinctive knock on her door pulls Anne out of her dour thoughts. "You can come in, Kat."

"Hi," she says. Her eyes are rimmed with a familiar redness. "Nightmares?"

"Yeah. And you?"

"Same."

With weak, watery laughter they share a high five. They sit on the edge of Anne's bed, and Kat holds out a small jar with a tiger on the label, "Help me out with this."

"And have my hands smell like a medicine cabinet for the rest of the day? No thanks!"

"Anne, come on," Kat whines, knowing full well that Anne's protests are cursory at best.

"I'll do it." In the doorway stands Catalina, looking tired but still unfairly put together for the hour in her silk robe.

"S-sorry--" Anne sputters. Kat begins to stumble to her feet.

"It's okay. We all have our bad nights. Now, lie down Kat, I'll help you with your neck."

"You're the best." Kat flops down onto the bed, burrowing her face into Anne's pillow.

The scent of camphor and mint fills the room as Catalina unscrews the jar, expertly dabbing the balm on the Kat's neck and parts of her back left uncovered by her shirt, massaging it into the skin with firm, gentle pressure. Between Catalina's hands and the balm, Kat slowly relaxes, letting out a muffled groan of relief.

Anne doesn't know how Kat tolerates having hands on her neck, let alone finds comfort in it. Anne knows Catalina would never, ever hurt Kat, and Kat is getting better at asserting her boundaries these days, but dread pulls at Anne's core, sensing deceit and demons where there are none.

She shakes the thought aside. She instead focuses on the soft words Catalina is saying. How Kat's previous tension is subsiding, bit by bit. Camphor and mint and--

Her green mug, filled with fresh chamomile tea is pushed into her hands by one Cathy Parr, still in her clothes from yesterday. "Evening."

Catalina glares at Cathy's own mug, but Cathy just laughs. "It's not caffeinated. I was going to bed before I heard this one--" She punctuates the phrase with a light kiss on Anne's temple, and Anne simply basks in the easy affection. "--pacing. Thought she'd want a cup of tea."

"Thank you." The tea, with a spoonful of honey (just the way she likes it), helps to settle her stomach, the warmth chasing away the dread.

It's only a matter of time before Anna (who has a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night) and Jane (who simply has an uncanny sense for these sorts of things) join them. Anna easily slips into the bed, with Kat readily relinquishing her current pillow in favor of Anna. Jane hesitates in the doorway.

"Can I get you anything? I think we still have those strange, orange fruits from the neighbors--"

"Just get in here," Anne says. "Please."

And she does. Jane gets into the now-cramped bed, and lets Anne rest her head to her chest. Let's Anne take in the steady beat of her heart.

"Do you think you'll be able to fall back asleep?"

Anne nods, the presence of the other queens lulling her mind into quiet.

Tomorrow morning, she'll wake up to Cathy, somehow sleeping in an awkward position in the bean bag chair. Anna and Kat will be gone, Anna having carried Kat to her room so Anne's space doesn't become suffocatingly overcrowded. The scent of camphor, mint, and chamomile will linger. She'll hear the telltale sounds of Catalina in the kitchen, already up, but the space she left behind in Anne's bed will still be warm.

And Jane will be running her fingers through Anne's hair, smiling.


	2. is it worth £23.50 to see your own grave?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: "angsty jane mayhaps?👀"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in an AU similar to common fanon, except instead of having scars from their death, they are haunted by shades.  
> [Furthered detailed in this tumblr post.](https://300percentmortality.tumblr.com/post/633054996245708800/when-i-was-a-kid-i-read-a-story-about-a-living)
> 
> Jane POV, no specific content warnings.

A morbid curiously brings Jane to Windsor Castle on a dreary Saturday afternoon, blending in among the tourists beholding the place that's a pale shadow of the one in her memory as if it was some museum replica. Her shade lingers over her shoulders.

She shouldn't have come, she thinks, but still she walks in the direction of St. George's Chapel. Any one of the other queens would have talked her out of it, if she had told them she planned to do this. She shouldn't have come, but her shade is pushing her forward with fever-soaked hands.

It had started with a wedding--a video of a royal wedding, in St. George's Chapel. Just a clip, really. A few seconds of the bride being led down the aisle.

Led down the aisle, dressed in white, and walking over Jane and Henry's shared grave.

(Not exactly. Her corpse isn't flush underneath the black marble, if there's even a corpse left at all, but her shade tenses up. Jane feels the pattern of footsteps down her spine.)

She stares up at the chapel. She takes a deep breath, only to descend into a coughing fit. She can't do this; she has to do this, has to see it for herself. The people around her pay her no mind.

Jane passes by the couple hastily turning off their video camera and stuffing it into their bags. Good. The rest of the chapel may as well not exist, the world narrowing down to the path before her and the feverish, insistent hands of her shade baring down upon her. Then she sees it: the black marble slab. It takes an agonizing eternity to make sense of the words.

' _In a vault beneath this marble slab are deposited the remains of Jane Seymour Queen of King Henry VIII 1537, King Henry VIII 1547, King Charles I 1648 and an infant child of Queen Anne. This memorial was placed here by command of King William IV. 1837._ '

Outside, it begins to rain.


	3. things you do to pay the rent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from the-mouth-albums: "I'd love to read something about the awkwardness of the reincarnated Queens trying to get jobs and pay rent"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd person, outsider POV, mentions of alcohol and weed in passing, setting is US because I have no knowledge of London start-up culture

Your department (you say, as if it isn't just you and David, in the basement of the cofounder's house) has been trying to hire a new person for a better part of three months, to no avail. Not too many applicants--content writing is one of the least glamorous jobs in a start-up--and the few who pass the phone screening don't have the right combination of skills and culture fit.

"At this point my standards have lowered into the fucking ground, Lexi," David groans. "I'll take the next person who comes in as long as they're half-way competent."

"You'd think we'd have plenty of English majors to choose from..."

"People realized that start-ups suck."

Your laptop dings with a notification. A new applicant: Anne Howard. David leans over your shoulder as you scan the resume. You scan it over a second time, more slowly. "This is the fakest looking resume I've ever seen."

"Same."

"Is it too early to start drinking?"

"Probably, but I saw Therese and Chris opening up that bottle of bourbon in the freezer after their meeting this morning, and if the bosses are drinking..."

It's going to be a long day.

* * *

Anne is personable and relaxed over the phone, with a certain lilt to her accent you can't place. Several times over the course of the call, you hear yelling in the background. When the yelling increases to a volume Anne finds unacceptable, she makes an attempt to muffle the receiver, shouts out something in perfect, rapid-fire French, and receives a reply in _Latin_. Still, the yelling stops.

"My apologies. My...housemates can be rather enthusiastic."

You laugh. "No worries."

By the end of the call you find yourself rather charmed, and a little saddened she had sent in a fake resume. Being multilingual and acting cool under pressure already put her leagues ahead of the other applicants.

"You were this close to offering her the job on the spot," David says. "Crush much?"

"If by crush you mean the desperation of trying to fill this god damn position, then sure. Got one hell of a crush."

"Come on then, let's talk with the bosses about arranging an interview."

* * *

A fake resume is not a dealbreaker for Therese and Chris--though this fact is only obtained after listening to a protracted story about their previous jobs, an outsourcing company, and their weed dealer. The interview date is set.

Anne, in person, is not exactly what you expected, though the more you think about it, you're not sure what you expected. Her posture is ramrod straight. Her clothes give off the energy of someone who panic googled "what do I wear to an interview", contrasted with the garish, rhinestone studded choker around her neck.

She does not lie once in the interview (at least with you), dancing around the questions with an impish cleverness and calm, only stumbling slightly when you ask her why she left her previous job.

"A, ah, major injury put me out of commission, for some time. And the position was filled in my absence." She touches the back of her neck; her choker shifts and out juts a glimpse of scar tissue. You don't press further.

You exit the interview pretty damn sure she's going to get hired, and you're right.

She starts next week.


End file.
